


Holmes Is Where The Heart Is

by gatergirl79



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Return, Season/Series 02 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:45:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatergirl79/pseuds/gatergirl79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having a hard time after losing Sherlock. He's broken all ties with his old life but when he wakes up back at their flat after a heavy night, he decides its time to come home but how will he cope alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No Beta-Reader. Probably Grammar/Spelling mistakes
> 
> Previously: Holmes is where the voice is

There were two kinds of days for John Watson. Neither of which could be considered - at least to him - as good. Some days were bright and sunny and the world was normal but it hurt to breathe and think but he could live. On these days John went about his life in a kind of bubble with a shadow over his head. He would work and smile and fool the world, but could never fool himself.

The other days were the ones he couldn't bare. He couldn't breathe at all. He wouldn't make it to work because these were the days were it wasn't a shadow haunting him but a solid figure. He'd turn a corner and there he'd be for a few seconds on a distant street corner or in a dark doorway or in a passing cab. John would feel his heart stop and the air leave his body. The memory that would usually crawl through his mind at night would slam into him like a bus. On those days John would go in search of solace and something to dull the agony and block out the memories. He knew it was a tightrope he was walking. One his sister had already fallen off of, the one that had putting a wedge between them. But Harry hadn't had John's excuse, not that he was using it as one.

Today was one of those destructive days. He'd woken up after another dream where the two most traumatizing experiences of his life had combined to drench him in sweat and have him shooting up in his bed fighting to breath. He'd tried to push it away as he always did and get on with his day. His life. Then he'd walked out of his small rented flat. The one he'd taken because he couldn't go back to Baker Street. He'd stepped into the bright winter morning and froze. There he was, across the street. His collar pulled up against his neck, his dark hair shifting in the gentle breeze. All cheekbones and mystery as he always was, at least to the world, though never to John. His heart jumped into his throat and he stared, trying not to blink. But there was only so long someone could fight that instinct. His lids snapped closed for the briefest moment but it was enough. When they opened again he was gone. - And that set the course of John's day. He'd pulled out his phone and called in sick before heading to the nearest pub.

All in all, Since that fateful day John hadn't had many destructive ones. he'd had maybe three. That's not counting the weeks leading up to and after the funeral, when he had been at his worst. The sleepless nights, hours of drinking, the return of his tremors and limp, all of which had driven him back into therapy. He knew on destructive days he was meant to call his therapist but he also knew what would happen if he did. She'd call him into her office, make him sit there for an hour or two and expect him to talk about it. Tell her what he was feeling. Which was fine, if he could explain what he was feeling. How was he meant to when he didn't understand it? He'd lost his best friend which was hard enough but it was worst than that. So much harder than that.

For over a year Sherlock been part of his life. - No, he'd  _become_ John's life. He hadn't realised that until he was alone again. Being in a silent flat was hard to take. He'd become so used to the man's infuriating presence. It was hard to lie in bed at night knowing the dreams would come and when he woke up it would all be real. That he wouldn't be woken to the smell of sulphur or something truly disgusting. It was hard to open his fridge and only find food. That's what was so strange, for the year or so before his death he'd done nothing but complain about the experiments. Now he'd give his left arm to find a head in his fridge.

John strolled up to the bar and ordered his fifth drink before returning to the dark corner table. It was still only 11:30 and he was thankful for early opening hours. Looking around the pub he found he was only one of a few. He looked at each ragged face and his mind tried to deduce what had pulled them in at such an early hour. - Did they have a pain they wanted to erase. - Of course, John couldn't decipher anything and knowing that only pained him more.

He would have thought that after over a year in Sherlock's world, he would have learnt something, and he had, it just wasn't helping him now. He could make guesses but he knew they'd be wrong. He could almost hear Sherlock scoffing and announcing that  _"You see but you do not observe, John."_ He swallowed hard and throw back his pint in one endless gulp. Slamming the glass onto the table he decided he needed something stronger to block out the sound of Sherlock's voice. Only to have it in his ear again.

_"John. You're not a casual drinker and this is a foolish pursuit. You have not eaten and you know as well as I do that alcohol on an empty stomach will lead for a quicker rate of intoxication and likely nausea. Not to mention that tomorrow you will have a hangover that would knock out an elephant. Stop now and go home. - You do not want to turn into your sister John."_

John knew he should listen to Sherlock, as he always listened. - And if it had been the supposedly " _fake_ " consulting detective, he would have, but it wasn't Sherlock. It was his own mind and he didn't care what his mind wanted. He'd listened to it for long enough and look where it had left him. - So John got up for the second time in ten minutes and ordered a triple scotch. If that didn't shut Sherlock up, nothing would.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

It was dark by the time John staggered out of the pub. He swayed on the side of the road and looked around him. The fresh air making his mind spin and his stomach tumble over itself. He watched the buses and cars rushing past and the sight only made him feel worse. He felt his knees go beneath him. His last thought was  _'Shit. - I'm so waking up in a cell.'_

" _You're a terrible drunk John."_ Sherlock's voice announced.  _"I leave you alone for a few months and look what you do to yourself. - I thought you had better sense than this."_

John knew he was talking out load but he couldn't care, he was fed up with his mind torturing him with Sherlock's voice. "Fuck you Sherlock. - If you were that worried about me then maybe you shouldn't have jumped off a hospital roof right in front of me!" he shouted.

" _I had to John. - It was the only way to keep you safe."_

"Safe?" John scoffed. "Well, isn't that nice. - I'm safe, your dead and we're all miserable. - Meanwhile the worlds going to shit because your not here to save it!"

Finally silence. John sighed, shaking his head to get it to focus, he needed to get home, preferably without getting himself mugged. Not that he really cared. The earth shifted beneath him and he was somewhat aware of being helped into a cab and an address being given, but he was already falling over the edge and into the void of unconsciousness.

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

The sunlight broke through the window and right into the core of John's brain sending a shattering pain through his head and his body. He was fully aware that he'd actually drunk himself into a stooper and was thankful. That had been the best nights sleep he'd had in months. Maybe he'd keep it up. He tried to open his eyes but the pain was just too bad, so he remain just where he was. Eyes closed to the world. He shifted a little to block out the sun that was determined to make him groan in agony. Ignoring it as best he could he flipped himself over and buried his face away. Still tired and hung-over he took no notice that he wasn't in the bed at his rented flat. He paid no mind to the smell of familiar leather that was climbing its way up his nose. He just groaned, sigh and fell back to sleep.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

Two hours later he was awakened by the sound of a familiar squeak and a soft wispy voice. "John? - Deary?" There was a small hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He tried to ignore it. His head pounding worse than it ever had before. But the hand would not be ignored. "John? - John are you alright?"

Finally John surrendered and turned over, his heavy lids separating to look up at the warm concerned face staring down at him. "I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Just a heavy night. - I'll be fine."

Mrs. Hudson straightened her back, her gaze still fixed on him. John groaned as he swung his feet off the couch and dropped his lead-filled head into his hands. "Any chance of a cup of tea - or better yet, coffee? Very strong and very black."

Mrs. Hudson hesitated a few moments. "Of course dear. - Aspirin too?" she asked in her usual material way.

"You're an angel."

He heard her little feet shuffling off to fix the coffee. She'd gone down stairs which felt odd, but John was too hard up to actually think about it. He fell back against the leather couch and dropped his head back with another groan. "I'm never drinking again. I swear it."

There was silence and John felt something in his mind shift. He cracked open one eye and looked over the where his flatmate should be sitting only to find an empty chair. His heart skipped as reality hit him. His gaze traversed the room taking in his surroundings. It looked the same yet different. The usually chaotic room was filled with brown cardboard boxes. The mantelpiece and shelves were empty and the room smelt of fresh air and not much else. John shifted forward in his seat and stared at the fireplace. His heart pounding hard in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs.

"Deary, are you alright? You look terribly pale." Mrs. Hudson sighed as she set the tea-tray on the coffee table. "Here, take these." she held out the two tablets.

"You kept everything?" He remarked, swallowing hard.

"I just couldn't bring myself to get rid of any of it." Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"I thought you were going to give it too a school?" John asked, before placing the tablets on his tongue.

Mrs. Hudson just shrugged. That had been what she'd planned to do but every time she tried she'd feel terrible about doing it. So everything had just sat there in the flat gathering dust and waiting for its owner that would never come.

"How did I get here, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Don't you know dear?"

John shook his head, shamefully dropping it. "I got a little hammered last night. - Last thing I really remember was leaving the pub at ten. After that's a blank."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "I'd love to be of help sweetie, but I have no idea. I only came up to air the room as I do every Friday. - Keep it fresh."

"Why haven't you re-let it? I'm sure you could do with the money." John asked, slowly regain his equilibrium.

"I don't really need the money. At least not just yet."

John frowned up at her.

"Seems Sherlock had some set aside for me, in case…." the older woman's voice trailed off.

John smiled gently. "'bout time he did something for you." a little angrily.

"You know as well as I do that he did a lot for me." Mrs. Hudson replied in a stern tone.

John nodded slowly. "I know." he all but whispered. He was still angry. Angry at Moriarty. Angry at anyone who ever believed Sherlock was a fake. Angry at himself for being unable to stop his best friend from jumping. - Mostly at Sherlock for taking that step.

"It's alright dear. - I understand." She smiled sadly, resting her hand on his shoulder. "So anyway, I don't need to let the flat. - And I don't want to. I can't imagine anyone else living here. This is your home. Yours and Sherlock's."

"It stopped being our home when…" John swallowed knowing he couldn't say the words. "…a while ago."

Mrs. Hudson fell on the seat next to him. "This will always be your home." she sniffled. "Always."

John looked around at the older woman, her eyes filling with tears. Lifting his arm, he snaked it around her shoulder, pulling her close.

"I'm sorry. I'm being a silly old fool."

"Of course your not."

"Why don't you come home John dear." She pleaded looking up at him.

John stiffen beside her. "I - I can't."

He looked around the place. He thought of 221B as their home, just as much as Mrs. Hudson did. Which was just why he couldn't continue to live there. It was their home. His and Sherlock's. It was hard enough living his dull uneventful life without his best friend, flatmate and partner in crime, without waking up every day to the reminder of his absence.

" _Don't be such an idiot John."_

John closed his eyes to try and block out the voice in his head.

" _Your already waking up with the reminder."_

John swallowed hard. He wouldn't listen. - Even if he did have a point.

" _It isn't logical to pay rent on a flat that you hate just to avoid a reminder of me, when I'm in your every thought."_

Mrs. Hudson swept at her tears. "Well. I have some things to be getting on with. At least stay and finish your tea, get your sea-legs back."

"I will." John nodded leaning forward to take hold of his mug.

"And don't you go leaving without saying goodbye."

"Wouldn't dare." John smiled.

"Actually. Stay for tea. I'll make your favourite."

"That won't be necessary. - I should really get back to…"

Mrs. Hudson gave him her hardest 'mother-says' gaze and John had to fight a laugh. "I haven't seen you in ages John."

Guilt stabbed at his gut. He'd been a terrible ex-tenant. He'd cut himself off from so much of the life he'd lived with Sherlock cause it was just too hard to see Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He'd stopped make the effort. He avoided their calls as much as possible. It was hard enough seeing Stamford, and occasionally Molly when his work took him to the hospital. Molly always wanted to talk to him, saying there was something important she wanted to tell him and he would always make his excuses and get away from her.

"Alright." John finally sigh. "We'll go out, my treat."

Mrs. Hudson gave him her beaming smile. He missed that smile. She gave a quick nod then rushed off down the stairs, leaving John alone in his old empty flat.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

John spent the first hour sat on the couch feeling awkward, just staring at the boxes. He'd finally gotten up when he'd need to use the loo. That was all it had taken. Once he was out of the seat and walking around the flat he was at home again. A trip to the loo had led to a ramble around the empty kitchen which had led to a trip to his room. It had had the feeling you get when you've returned after a long absence. Welcoming, peaceful and just where you wanted to be. He had to fight the feeling to fling himself on the bed with a sigh of pleasure. Instead he turned tail and headed back down stairs.

John had known he missed Sherlock. He hadn't thought he'd missed the flat. He'd left his room and strolled down the stairs and into the lounge. Looking at the boxes. He didn't know why he opened the first box or why he'd started unpacking it. It just felt right to do so. He had a strange feeling that those things Mrs. Hudson had packed away as Sherlock's, somehow belonged to him too. They were what made the flat home.

He'd started with Sherlock's ' _friend'_ , then Sherlock's books. Soon the room was back to the way he'd left it all those months ago. Slowly it was returning to normal. - Well as normal as it could be without Sherlock. John walked into the kitchen and searching the box Mrs. Hudson had marked as ' _Kitchen Ware'_ probably planning on sending it to a charity shop. Pulling out his mug, which he hadn't even realised he'd left behind, though looking down at it now he knew why. - Sherlock had given it to him for Christmas, and it had somewhat surprised him, as it showed that Sherlock did own a sense of humor. John smiled at the writing on the side.  **I'm Not A Genius, But I Live With One.** John actually chuckled. "Prat." He turned to put the cup down and his breath caught at the sight of Sherlock mug still in the box. Lifting it out he placed it on the shelf where it belonged before turning to the cupboard where he'd expected to find tea. Only to find it empty.

He shook his head at himself.

" _Of course it's empty John."_ Sherlock's voice smirked _._

"Oh shut up." John said out loud, his own smirk pulling across his face as he headed into the front room and grabbing his jacket off the chair.

" _Don't forget the milk."_

John rolled his eyes at the reminder. He wasn't sure if he hated or loved that his mind had taken on Sherlock's voice. Part of him feared that he might actually be going crazy. He was still considering this as he walked to the local shop for tea, milk and some biscuits, already knowing that it was time to come home, no matter how painful it might be.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

John strolled back into 221B and once again took a deep breath as the reality of Sherlock not being there hit him. This was what he'd been avoiding for months, but he'd made up his mind, it was time to face his demons and his future without Sherlock. And if all he would ever have left of the man was this silent flat then he'd take that for what it was. A blessed memory. Dumping the bags on the unusually empty kitchen table, John began to put things away. Milk in the fridge. Tea, sugar and biscuits in the cupboard. He had no idea why he'd brought sugar as he didn't take it himself, out of habit he supposed. He put away his other shopping. Some frozen meals and some snacks, then he set about making tea for himself, not quite sure what he was going to do afterwards. He knew he'd have to go and collect his things from his rented flat, but he wasn't ready to leave Baker Street yet. Just a little scared that he wouldn't come back.

So with his tea in his hand, he dropped down in his chair and stared across at the empty one. Letting the silence wash over him. He'd never really known silence, but the noise Sherlock had made was different to that of the army. The army had been shouting, loud and in your face, it had been gunfire and stamping feet. Sherlock's noise was more subtitle. Whether it was the constant stream of his deep yet soft voice, the humming, the violin or his stomping around the flat shouting ordered to anyone who happened to be within ear shot - and anyone who wasn't. - it had all become normal and welcome to John.

Now the nearest he got was the occasion Sherlockian voice in his head. John took a sip of his tea and slouch down in his chair with a sigh.

"Is this the right decision Sherlock?" he asked the empty room.

_Of course? Why wouldn't it be?_

"I don't know." John shrugged.

_John we both know you're miserable in that dingy little flat. Mrs. Hudson is right, this is your home. Whether I'm in it or not._

"I wish you were." John sighed.

_Do you? Why?_

He could almost picture Sherlock confused frown. He huffed out a breath and a small smile crossed his lips. "Sentiment, Sherlock. - Sentiment."

_Oh, of course. I understand._

John rolled his eyes. "I wish you did."

"John?"

He almost jumped out of his skin at the voice. Spinning round to see Mrs. Hudson sadly smiling at him.

"Are you alright dear?"

"I'm fine." he smiled back. "How about an early dinner."

"Early dinner?" Mrs. Hudson laughed looking at her watch. "It's barely 2 in the afternoon."

John grinned and got to his feet, leaving his mug on the table beside him. "Late lunch then."

Mrs. Hudson returned his grin with a nod. "That would be lovely dear." she glanced around the room as he collected his jacket. "Y-you unpacked?"

"Oh." John looked at the room as he slid his arms into the black coat. "Yes. - I want to talk to you about that."

"You're moving back in?" she asked with a hopeful glint in her eyes.

John smiled softly. "If that's alright with you."

He got his answer in the form of an all encompassing hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Of course it is. Thank heavens." she breathed. "I was beginning to think I'd never see you again. I've hated being here all on my own…" she was sniffling again. "…it was hard enough to lose Sherlock, but to lose you too…" another sniffle, this time with tears.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson. - I - I…."

"I know. I know. It was hard on us all, but you and Sherlock… well… are you and Sherlock."

John didn't know what to say. He wasn't even sure what she meant. They'd convinced Mrs. Hudson years ago that there was nothing between them but friendship. Though John had often seen her looking at them in a funny way and had thought that they hadn't done such a good job on the convincing front.

"Come on then." the older woman sniffed, taking hold of his arm. "Where are you taking me?"

John smiled as he led her down the stairs and out of the house. Feeling at ease a little as another piece of his life slip back into place.

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

"John." exclaimed a large man with a greying ponytail, as they walked in, his hand extended to greet them. "Nice to see you." he gave John that smile. The one he'd gotten so many times since losing Sherlock.

"Hi Angelo, any chance of some lunch." John asked with a smile, looking around the surprisingly full restaurant.

"Of course." Angelo's grin widened.

John turned to the only available seat and decided that fate was working against him. Shifting into the window seat he couldn't help but be reminded of the first time he'd come here with Sherlock. They'd sat at this exact table waiting for the crazy cabbie to make an appearance. John wasn't sure why he'd even decided to come to Angelo's? He should have know it would bring back memories. Sherlock and him had come here many times in between cases, but then there was nowhere in the London that didn't remind him of Sherlock in some way or other.

Angelo stood at the table. "Whatever you want, it's on me."

"That's not necessary Angelo, really." John smiled, shrugging out of his jacket.

"I insisted." He swiped at the air, before handing the pair menus. "Drinks?"

John nodded looking at Mrs. Hudson. "Carlsberg and a dry white wine."

Angelo gave him another sad smile before headed off to get their drinks.

"He seems nice." Mrs. Hudson smiled, watching the man walk away.

John smirked down into the menu. "Oh really? On the prowl again are you?"

" _John_." Mrs. Hudson laughed, swatting at his arm. "You're terrible."

"So are you." He looked up from his menu and gave her a warm loving smile. Mrs. Hudson had become a more like a mother to him and Sherlock over the too short year or so they'd lived with her. She gave them something they'd both been missing for too long and they'd been thankful to have her. "So what do you want?"

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

John head tilted back with a laugh and he felt his heart skip.

He'd been so worried about John over the past few months. His plan to secure the safety of him, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade was taking longer than he expected. Even with his brother's help. He needed to be sure that there were no others waiting in the wings to threaten his friends. Sherlock pulled his collar closer to his neck as a wind rushed in from the north. His gaze never leaving the restaurant window. He'd watched his friend for months now and what he'd seen hadn't been all that comforting. Mycroft hadn't told him about John moving out of Baker Street. In fact Mycroft hadn't told him anything. He'd just been informed that John was safer if Sherlock stayed away, at least until everything had been managed and Sherlock had agreed. At first.

But after almost a year with no end in sight, he'd decided he need to see John. It had surprised him actually. John had become such a large part of his life that he could almost say that it hurt not being around him. If Sherlock ever acknowledge such emotions. When he'd discovered that John had moved out of 221B he'd known it was a bad sign. One look at John had told him that his deductions had been correct, as they always were of course. He hadn't realised that John had seen him, not until he'd followed him to a pub and watched him drink himself till he was half unconscious. Fearing that he might actually cause John to take the same destructive path as his sister had him keeping his distance. Getting his information from a reluctant Mycroft from then on.

John had sorted himself out, getting a job at a local GP's office, but he hadn't returned to Baker Street. Sherlock had tried his hardest to stay away but some days he couldn't stop himself from appearing outside John dingy little flat just to prove to himself that he was alright. He'd been more careful not to be seen again. After a few months of this, he decided he'd had enough. John needed to get his life back on track, which meant going home. - Not to mention Mrs. Hudson was lonely. So he'd set about making sure his best friend was settled back into their flat. After all, when all this was over, he wanted to go home to John and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock smiled to himself at just how easily it had been.

Sherlock light-hearted enjoyment was swiftly vanquished at the appearance of a black car pulling up beside him. He groaned out load, not needing to look around to know who it was.

"Sherlock. - Get in the car before someone sees you."

Sherlock lifted his chin with a stubborn shifting of his body.

"Sherlock. Do not make me force you." Mycroft said in his gently yet stern way.

"I'd like to see you try."

"If you insist."

Sherlock heard a car door open and close. He rolled his eyes. "dull." he sighed, pushing himself off the wall, his gaze never leaving John and Mrs. Hudson, until the last possible moment.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

John woke up in his own bed and sighed. It had been three weeks since he'd moved back to Baker Street and he hadn't felt so much at peace. He'd been a fool to have moved out in the first place. But then they do say, you don't know what you have until its gone. How true. He threw back his bed covers and headed down to the bathroom. After a quick shower and a cup of tea, John headed out. He was meeting up with Sarah. It wasn't a date. They'd come to terms with the fact that they just weren't suited, but they were both doctor which meant they would cross paths.

That path had been crossed a week ago. They'd bumped into each other while shopping. After a few awkward moments, they'd decided to go for coffee and catch up. Sarah had told him about her new fiancée and he'd been surprisingly ecstatic for her. John informed her that he was back at Baker Street, which had predicatively lead to that sympathetic look and the repeated apologized for his loss. He knew Sarah had never really liked Sherlock, and the feeling was rather mutual, but the sympathies were clearly heartfelt. John had been sure that Sarah was just one of the thousands that thought there was something between them.

John had also informed Sarah that he was once again looking for work, closer to home. Sarah had been happily surprised and said that the doctor he'd covered for when they'd first met had decided to give up her career in order to become a full time mum and they were now looking for a full time doctor. John had jumped at the chance. Without the distraction of Sherlock's work, he didn't need to worry about falling asleep in the consulting room or about having to calling in sick with a pathetic excuse because Sherlock needed him to go see some murder scene or other. Of course Sherlock hadn't kept his mouth shut.  _But its going to be so boring John._

"Just what I need." John had smiled at Sarah.

_That's a lie John. You know you would rather be running over London with me._

Which was exactly true, but sadly that wasn't an option anymore. It wasn't like he could go out and find another consulting detective.

_You wouldn't dare._

And so he'd started at the surgery and had thrown himself into his work. Him and Sarah had become close friends, occasionally going out for a drink after work, or meeting up when the surgery was closed. Which was just where he was going today. Sarah wanted him to meet her fiancée, probably to set the man's mind at easy about their friendship. He had to admit he was reluctant. He dreaded to think what she'd told him.

_Undoubtly that you broke up because your male flatmate was your main priority._

John rolled his eyes as he picked his wallet off the table. "Great. - I can't believe I'm still having to try and convince people that I'm not gay, even after your dead."

_I do not see why it is an issue. We both know the truth._

John looked down at the empty chair for a long moment. "Yeah." he sighed before turning to leave.

_Don't forget to bring in milk John._

"Have I ever forgotten Sherlock?" John heard himself snap over his shoulder to the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story came to me while in bed but it has been floating around my mind for a few days and I finally decided to start it. As I said I don't know how long its going to be, or how quick the updates will be. I just need to write. I'm getting writer withdrawal and am having some real trouble coming up with a follow up to 'You'll Have To Do Better Than That.' I have started it, though whether it gets past the draft stage is still unsure. Though I do hope I can pull it off.
> 
> I hope it wasn't too confusing or disastrous. I'm letting the story lead the way, though I have a rough idea where I'm going, kinda.


	2. Chapter 2

It went just how John had expected. He'd arrived at the small restaurant and was meet with a sickeningly happy Sarah and her tall and her exceedingly good looking fiancée Tom. The men had shaken hands and the inevitable happened.

"Sarah's told me so much about you." Tom smiled warmly, as they took their seats. The waiter hovering close to deliver the menus.

"Oh, I hope it wasn't too boring." John smiled.

"No…" Tom laughed. "…anything but"

The menu's were handed over by the waiter, who left after taking their drinks order. There was silence at the table for a few moments, John glancing up from his menu to watch the pair. They sat close together, Sarah's hand in his. They looked so happy. What actually surprised John though was his lack of jealously. He was genuinely glad Sarah had found someone who wasn't going to get her kidnapped by Chinese smugglers. He swallowed down a hard lump in his throat and went back to his menu.

Tom dropped his first and looked across the table. "Sarah was telling me about your partner…" he was saying and John felt Sarah kick the man under the table. The words had held that weight to them and John knew exactly what sort of  _'partner'_ Tom was implying.

_Told you. - So isn't this where you start spouting the party line John. The "I'm not gay" bit._

"I.." he paused as the waiter appeared and took their orders before he could say anything. When he left John lifted his gaze to Sarah's and saw the apology. He couldn't believe she actually thought he was having a relationship with Sherlock. - But then why should she be any different from everyone else.

_We were in a relationship John, it just wasn't a sexual one. We lived together, we fought over bills and damp towels. You were always correcting my behaviour and were always concerned about me. Is that not a relationship?_

John swallowed again, taking a gulp of water hoping to wash away the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. Putting the glass down he became vaguely aware of the stinging behind his eyes. He hadn't cried over Sherlock's death since that day at the grave side, when he'd pleaded for Sherlock to come back. To not be dead. - And like always, the bastard hadn't listened to him.

"See what you've done. I told you not to mention it." Sarah scolded.

"Sorry." Tom sighed.

"I-it…" John swallowed again and took a deep breath. "…It's fine. Really…" he gave a small brave smile. "…thank you." he said looking at Tom. "I'm getting…through it." he took another breath.

"Sarah's told me a lot about him too."

Sarah blushed scarlet with another apologetic look.

"I bet she did." John smiled, trying to wrestle control over his emotions. "They didn't exactly get on."

"That's not true...well not completely." Sarah smiled slightly. "He did try to safe my life."

"Don't remind me. I'm surprised you even wanted to see me again after that night."

She blushed again. "What can I say, I like a challenge."

_Your making him uncomfortable John. Shut up. Look, he's taking her hand in a dominance display._

"I guess I was too much of a challenge." John continued, ignoring his mind.

"No. - I just know when I'm beat. - And Sherlock beat me."

Tom cleared his throat. "So. How long were you together?"

John frowned at him. "Me and Sarah? About…"

"No. You and Sherlock?" the question was followed by another kick.

"We were…"

"I checked him out when Sarah told me about you both. He sounds fascinating. - Though I did see a few articles about him being a fake." It wasn't a kick this time, it was a punch in the arm. "…Sorry. I'm just…sorry." Tom dropped his gaze a little boyishly.

John felt the heat creep up his cheeks. Although the kiss and tell article on Sherlock hadn't made it to print, thanks to a certain powerful government official, the rumours had gotten out and they'd stuck. His blog had been bombarded by comments calling Sherlock all kinds of disparaging names. Sherlock's site had also been targeted. John's last entry had been a short clear comment, stating that he would never believe Sherlock had lied to him or anyone. He hadn't logged in since. "Sherlock wasn't a fake." he finally stated with some venom. "He was the best man I ever knew and it was all a smear campaign cooked up by Moriarty."

An awkward uncomfortable silence fell on the table and John could have kicked himself. This was meant to be a pleasant lunch with a friend to meet her new partner, instead it was turning into a stressful afternoon for defending Sherlock to the world. - Again. Finally their food was delivered and they began to eat. Still in silence.

_Say something John. Your making them nervous. - And try to control your temper this time._

"So…" he swallowed his food. "…what do you do for a living, Tom?"

"I'm a civil servant. All rather dull in comparison to your life."

_Lie_

"Hardly, my life's thankfully quiet and dull." John smiled.

_Lie._

"So which branch?" John added with interest.

"Department of Work and Pensions."

_Lie_

"That sounds…."

_Boring. - That's of course if it wasn't a huge stinking lie._

"…Interesting. - And you met Sarah how?"

Tom smiled over at Sarah. "I took my niece to see her. - Love at first sight."

_No such thing. - but at least that's true._

"Love at first sight? Oh really." John giggled, looking between the pair. "You believe in that?"

"Of course." Tom smiled goofily. "Sometimes you just meet someone and instantly know they're going to be the centre of your world."

Sarah cooed and lent in to kiss him.

John shifted his gaze to his plate.  _What? No smart-ass comment Sherlock?_ There was silence in his head finally.

Lunch went rather smoothly after that. They talked about nothing in particular, exchanged funny works anecdotes and when it was time to leave they all shook hands, said they'd have to do it again, waved goodbye and walked away. All thankful that it was over.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

John walked into the flat and was instantly hit by the smell of cottage pie.

"How was it deary?" Mrs. Hudson smiled.

John dropped down into his chair, not even bothering to take off his jacket. "As expected." he sighed. "Sarah looks very happy and Tom's a decent enough guy, though Sherlock thinks he iffy."

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson frowned as she carried in a cup of tea.

John flushed. "I - I mean he would find him iffy, if he was there…" he swallowed. "…you know Sherlock, he always has to find something."

Mrs. Hudson smiled with a nod, though John could see the concern in her eyes. "John deary…"

"I'm fine Mrs. Hudson."

Another sad smile. "Alright sweetie." she patted his shoulder lightly before walking back into the kitchen.

John sat staring at the chair a little concerned himself. Sherlock voice was filling his mind on a more regular bases, ever since he'd moved back home. As a doctor he knew he should see someone. Go back to his therapist before it got too out of hand, but there was something so comforting about having Sherlock's voice in his head. It was as if he was still there.

_But I'm not there John._

"Don't you think I know that Sherlock." he whispered to himself, so as Mrs. Hudson wouldn't hear him. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes deary."

"Do - d-do you ever….hear Sherlock's voice." he asked sadly.

Mrs. Hudson looked sympathetically down at him. "Sometimes…I think I hear him yelling for me."

John sighed with relief. "Me too."

"I know dear."

"Do you think there's something wrong with me, Mrs. Hudson?" he throat tightened.

"I think you're missing him John. - It's natural."

"I find myself talking to him sometimes."

"I know, I've heard you sweetie."

"I think I should see someone." he sighed finally coming to the decision.

"Whatever you thinks best John." she gently squeezed his shoulder.

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

John hated sitting in this chair, face to face with his therapist. She was always looking at him like she could read his mind. Like she knew something he didn't. It was like facing off against Sherlock. Only he knew the detective had actually known things, while she was just trying get him to tell her something by pretending she already knew it. It was a trick he'd seen Sherlock pull a few times. He didn't even know why he was still seeing her. Mycroft and Sherlock had already proven she wasn't very good at her job. Haunted by the battlefield indeed. PTSD? Hardly. The woman had no idea. He hated to think what he'd have been like if he hadn't met Sherlock. John swallowed hard as her brown eyes burrowed into him.

_If you know she's useless John, why are we here?_

_Because I'm talking to my dead flatmate, genius._

_You know what she's going to say don't you John? - PTSD - Again._

"How have you been John?"

He shrugged. "Same as usual."

"What does that mean John?"

"Living. - I'm back at Baker Street."

"How is that going for you?" she asked jotting on her pad.

"It's…fine."

"Hmm."

They fell into silence again.

"John? - You've been avoiding my call for months, so why are you here now?"

John shifted in his seat. "I…" he took a breath, unsure if he could tell her. "…I just needed to…."

"Yes?"

_John, this is dull. This woman is as ignorant as Anderson. If she was actually any good, she'd be able to take one look at you and know what is wrong. - I always could._

_No you couldn't_

_Of course I could._

"John? - Are the nightmares back?"

 _Well that's an impressive deduction_. Sherlock's voice sighed sarcastically.

"No. - Not in a while."

"That's good." she smiled, writing again.

"Yeah."

"Is this about Sherlock?" she asked.

_Well obviously._

John swallowed. "I…"

She waited patiently.

_Are you going to tell her or not? - Or we could just leave._

"I've been…thinking about him…a lot."

"That's natural John. - Especially after moving back into the flat you shared with him."

"It's just…." he swallowed. "…difficult."

"John, you lived with him for over a year. You were very close…"

_She's insinuating John._

"…you worked together and you witnessed his death. Everything your feeling is expected."

John clenched and unclenched his left hand as it began to shake.

"I noticed you stopped writing your blog."

"Of course I have."

_See. Moron. - How does anyone put up with these people?_

"Why?"

John glared at her. "What do you mean why?"

She didn't answer, she just watched him.

"The blog was about him. About our work. How am I meant to continue to write it if he's….. if the world thinks he's a…."

"It was your blog John and you're still alive. You still have a life."

"A boring one." he snapped.

She regarded him for a long while. "John. - Have you thought that your blog would be the perfect place to defend your friend?"

John frowned at her.

"Maybe writing about your life and friendship with Sherlock would show him in a different light. Maybe if they could see him the way you did then they would reconsider the rumours. - It may also help you deal with his loss."

John looked at his still shaking hand.

_Don't you dare John. I do not want the world knowing anymore about me than you've already revealed._

"I - I don't know…"

"Just try it John. - You don't need to publish it, just write what you feel."

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

John sat at the table, his laptop staring at him like it wanted to kill him. He didn't think he could do this. His hands were shaking as his fingers hovered over the keys. It sound so easy to write about his life with Sherlock, outside of the cases. About his friendship, about what the man had meant to him. But now as he sat there it was the hardest, most painful thing in the world. It felt like poking at an unhealed wound. Even after all these years.

_You do not have to do this John._

"Yes. I think I do." John sighed. His hope was that if he could put his feeling on paper - or on screen as the case may be. - that maybe it would help exorcises the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. - But where to begin?

John was sat there for two hours staring at a blank white screen. He hadn't felt so empty of thoughts in years. It was just has it had been when the suggestion was first made. Before his life had actually become blog worthy. - then he had thought about writing about Afghanistan, about the war and his friends that were still fighting, still dying, but he hadn't been able to put any of it in writing. Now he had that same problem. His therapist said to write about his friendship, about their life. Show the world that the Sherlock Holmes they thought they knew was nowhere near the real Sherlock. - but that felt wrong. Even if he wasn't going to publish a word of what he wrote out of respect to his friend, he couldn't write about their life and friendship. It was all too personal. Sherlock would hate him. He'd hated it when he'd told the world that he didn't know the earth went around the sun. He hated it when he'd told the world about the cases he hadn't be able to solve.

_He hated it when people didn't think. You could say his biggest failing really was that he wanted the world to be better than it was. He want people to use the gifts god had bestowed on them. It wasn't that he wanted to be special, it's that he just was. He just wanted to solve problems, to use his ever whirling mind. To make sense of the world around him. He was a genius in a broken world, and he used the skills he possessed to help make that broke world better. - Despite what Moriarty would have the world believe._

_But people never saw that, I wish they had, but all you saw was a man with little if no social skills, with no patience or kindness. But Sherlock Holmes had those things. I know this because I saw them everyday. His patience with me when I didn't see what he saw, when I didn't understand. Sure, he was always brash, but he'd always take the time to explain. - And I don't think it was just to show off. After a year together I knew when he was doing that. I think he just wanted me to see the world as he did. I think he may have been trying to teach me in his own way. Sadly I was never really very good at it._

_I saw his kindness towards our landlady, his love. Yes, that's right love. Has much as he would deny it, he was capable of such emotions. Love, Friendship, Loyalty. He was actually nicer to her than he was to me a lot of the time. He'd walk though fire for Mrs. Hudson. He'd die for her. He'd kill for her. Now does that sound like a heartless, emotionless man to you?_

_He'd said once that he only had one friend. Me. But, the truth is he had more than just me. He had Lestrade who put his career on the line time and again because of his faith in Sherlock. Sure that faith hadn't stood him in good stead at the end, but he hadn't exactly had much choice with certain people pushing him forwards. They know who they are and they know I hold them as much responsible for my friends death as I hold Moriarty._

_Then there's Mrs. Hudson, who like me, misses him on a daily basis. His brother who cared enough for him, that he tested my loyalty before we'd even become flatmates. Molly. Mike. Angelo. Raz. and the countless others who still believe in Sherlock. People who saw what he was able to do first hand. - He has more friends than he will ever sadly know. I just happen to be the one who…_

John's fingers froze. He hadn't even realised he'd been writing. He stared at the words, tears burning behind his eyes.

 _The one who what John?_ Sherlock voice asked.

His hands began to shake. Suddenly he threw back his chair and rushed out of the house. He need to get away. Away from the memories, away from the pain…away from Sherlock.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

It had begun raining almost the instant John had left the house but he couldn't go back inside. He needed air, just a bit. He wasn't going to run away, not again, he just needed time to think. Writing had opened an wound that he didn't even know existed. He knew he missed Sherlock. He knew the loss had hurt, but he couldn't explain why. He'd lost friends before. He was a soldier, it came with the job. It wasn't witnessing the death, he'd done that before too. But after more months than he cared to count he still hadn't accepted it. It still didn't feel real. He kept waiting for the man to tap him on the shoulder and say it was all part of some insane plan or other. Maybe that was why he was hanging onto the voice. Because he knew that if he let go, he'd really have to say goodbye. He'd have to actually except that he was never going to see him again, hear his rants and snips and jokes. He'd have to face a future without him and that idea terrified him.

Somehow John had started to imagine Sherlock was always going to be in his life. When he'd pictured his future the frustrated git of a detective was always there. Women would come and go, but Sherlock was constant. - Until he wasn't. The bastard had bailed out on him. Leaving him alone, friendless and hopeless, with no idea what his future was going to be now. He'd probably meet a girl, get married, have kids. - Which he would under no circumstance call Sherlock. - and live his life. But it wouldn't be the life he would choose for himself, he knew. If he was given that choice now. If an angel stood in his path and offered him a beautiful wife, a dozen kids, a decent career. If an angel offered him everything he'd wanted when he'd left the army, or Sherlock Holmes and his hectic, insane, dangerous life. John knew without even a thought which he would pick.

He'd been given that choice - in a way. - before he'd even gotten to know Sherlock. Mycroft had practically kidnapped him and offered him money to spy on Sherlock. He could have taken the money and done it, at least until he had enough to get his own place. He could have walked away and not gotten involved in their childish little sibling rivalry. But he didn't. He'd made his decision the instant he'd received that first text from Sherlock. Mycroft had told him to choose a side, and John had done so. - He just hadn't known at the time where that decision would lead him.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

The silence in the house was making him nervous. He shouldn't be there, he knew that, Mycroft would have his head but he had just needed to see the place. This was his home, it was where he felt safe and comfortable and wanted, something Sherlock had rarely felt as a child. Was it really any wonder he was considered a cold fish? That he didn't know how to act around people. His father had been a diplomat with the home office. He'd rarely been at home, and when he was, he may as well not have been. Sherlock and Mycroft had been dotted on by their mother, but after her death when Sherlock was seventeen, there hadn't been much in the way of affection. The age cap between him and Mycroft had been such that he'd been in his final year of university before Sherlock had even started his A-Levels. So he'd found something else to keep him entertainted. He'd thrown himself into the study of crime. It had been just a hobby to begin with, something to keep his extraordinary mind working in a dull and uneventful life. He hadn't actually picture it  _becoming_ his life.

But it had. It had taken him over so utterly, that the work was all that matter, proving himself smarter than the not-so-average criminal was all he'd cared about. He'd never considered that in doing so he'd make himself a target. - Or a target out of anyone close to him. Of course, he hadn't thought he'd have anyone close to him. Except Mycroft. He'd gone though most of his adult life moving from flat to flat. Sometimes having a roommate, mostly happily living alone. Focusing on his work because everything else was transport. So if you had told him seven years ago that one day he'd be putting the safety of others before himself., before the work, he'd have laughed. Because that would have to mean that people, that  _someone_ , had gotten close enough for him to care.

Sherlock took off the traffic wardens hat and dropped it on the couch. His eyes scanning the flat. Everything looked as it had the last time he was here. A little more tidy he supposed. John obviously allowed Mrs. Hudson to clean the place. "So much for not being our housekeeper." he smirked to himself. Walking further into the flat, he took a deep breath. There was that smell, the one he'd actually been missing, craving. It was tea and John's aftershave, there was a slight difference in the aroma, there wasn't the fresh sweet smell of Sherlock deodorant swimming though the room. He walked over to the mantelpiece. Everything was there, including his skull. Looking around he notice that everything was exactly were it was meant to be. Which he had to say surprised him. He'd been back to the flat once after his funeral. He'd needed some things and didn't trust Mycroft's people. After all, they were all liars and thieves. When he'd walked in, all his things were in boxes, the place had been aired and it hadn't felt at all like home. - Now it did, and it made him smile to think that John had unpacked his stuff and placed everything back to where it belongs. - Especially when John hated half the stuff in the room.

Walking into the kitchen he stopped. The table top was clear. "Obviously John didn't put everything back where it belonged." he began looking around once more before strolling into his room where he found the box marked ' _Sherlock's Equipment'_. Sherlock's throat tightened and he swiftly turned on his heels and walked back into the living room, picking up the pile of letters on the table besides John's mug. - the one he'd brought him for Christmas. Sherlock smiled to himself. He remembered John face when he'd opened it. He'd actually looked surprised, like he'd thought Sherlock wouldn't actually buy him a gift. Which was ridiculous. Of course he brought Christmas gifts. He'd given Mrs. Hudson a bottle of that perfume she always wore, and Lestrade a new pair of shoes, as he walked a lot, as for Mycroft…well. They didn't do presents any more.

He had thought about buying John something functional but something told him that John would prefer something more personal, so he'd checked on-line. Of course a lot of the things that the search engine had suggested when he'd typed the word  _'personal Christmas gifts'_  had been wholly unsuitable. Then he'd come across a site that personalised items like bath towels and robes. When he'd seen the mugs he'd know it was perfect. It hadn't been all that hard to think up something to have put on it. He didn't want to go with the obvious and dull things, like John or 'To John, Merry Christmas Sherlock' he'd wanted something amusing, cause much to peoples surprise they both had excellent senses of humour. John had laughed when he'd read it, and so had Sherlock. It was most defiantly the best Christmas he'd had in a long time.

While chuckling to himself Sherlock flipped thought the post in his hand. "Bill, bill, letter from Harry…" he turned it over in his hand, examining it, sniffing it. "She's in trouble again. John won't be happy. - More bills. Lord John, how can one man have so many bills, what are you doing while I'm away?" With a sigh, Sherlock dropped the letter on the mantel piece, pinning them down with his knife, before falling into his chair with a huff. He dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Taking in the comfort and peace of home.

After a few moments he opened them. That's when he saw that John had left his computer on. "That's unlike John." he frowned, pushing himself out of the chair and marching other to the table. He stared down at the computer screen. Reading the words. He just stood there taking it all in. He'd been watching John's blog since he'd…left. There had been a lot of disparaging comments made. Not only about Sherlock, but about John. Say he'd known all the time that Sherlock was a fake, and that he'd been complicit. As if. John was far to moral to go along with anything so underhand. Sherlock had been so angry by these comments he'd even written a few anonymous replies, pointing out how ridiculous the idea was that John had anything to do with it. - In the most common and stupid way possible. - John however hadn't said a word in his own defence, it had all been in Sherlock's. He'd made a few posts declaring his faith in his best friend, no matter what anyone said. Then he'd stopped posting altogether. Now here he was writing again. It wasn't a declaration of defeat or another one of faith…it was a statement about him, Sherlock, as a person not a detective or a supposed fraud, but as a friend and flatmate. Sherlock could feel the tightness in his throat again and had to swallow hard. There was that pain in his chest, the one he'd had when talking to John from the rooftop, the one he'd had when he'd watched John at his graveside. - the one he got when he dreamt about how it could have turned out that day.

He was still reading, swallowing hard, fighting to breath through the pain in his chest when he reached the last line.  _He has more friends than he will ever sadly know. I just happen to be the one who…_ Sherlock frowned at the unfinished statement. What was John going to say? or more accurately what didn't he want to say? "The one who what, John?" Sherlock asked the empty room. The silence was broken by the familiar beep of his message alert. He knew who it was without looking, but he pulled the mobile free of his jacket pocket anyway.

**Inbox:**

**Sherlock, don't make me send someone.**

**M.**

Sherlock sighed, looking out of the window where a black car waited across the road. With a final glance at the computer screen he turned, picked up his hat, replaced it on his head and left. John's last words haunting him all the way to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this.


	3. Chapter 3

John took at deep breath and froze, his brows folding in on themselves. Something was wrong, difference, out of place, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. He was drenched through from the rain and water was dripping from his coat to pool on the floor. He lifted his nose to the air and inhaled again deeply. Great, now he was smelling things. He shook his head. "Jesus." he swore.

 _Sherlock actually_. The voice in his head laughed.

John ignored it, turning on his heels and marching to his room to change out of his wet clothes. When he came back the smell was fading, but it was there enough to notice and make it almost hard to breath. Remembering that he'd left his computer on when he'd ran out of the house a couple of hours ago, John marched over to turn it off, not even giving what he'd written a glance. He didn't want to see any of that right now. He'd delete it later. Turning to head to the kitchen his gaze took in the mantelpiece, more precisely the knife holding his post in place. Another frown creased his brows, his heart jumped and his hand began to shake again. He just stood there staring at the implement.

_Clearly I've been here._

John ignored the voice and its ridiculous suggestion.

_John? You know very well that you left the post on the table._

"I - Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson." John tried to rationalise.

_Mrs. Hudson? Really John? Huh, do you know how much strength it takes to do that? More than she has. - And how do you account for the smell?_

"I - I…" John swallowed hard. His hand clenching and unclenching at his side. "It's im-impossible Sherlock. - You're dead."

_Come on John, I've told you this before. When you've eliminated all that's possible, whatever's left, no matter how improbably, must be the truth._

"I didn't understand that the first time Sherlock." John snapped. "Are you saying your not dead?"

_Clearly._

John was shaking his head. "No…I know your…I saw…"

_You saw what John? You saw a man falling from the top of a building._

"I saw you on the ground." John argued.

_With my face pummelled and covered with blood. - Are you sure it was me?_

"Y-yes…" Though now he was actually beginning to question himself. "…Molly identified your body."

_Huh. How?_

"What do you mean how? - She's known you for years, she's a professional, she can tell this stuff. Besides Mycroft ID you too…. And there was the DNA."

_DNA is only as good as the records you keep, remember? - As for Mycroft and Molly. Well, Mycroft does this sort of thing for a living, remember the flight of the dead... And Molly would have done anything if I asked her, she has access to dead bodies and blood…. And she has been strange around you, stranger that usual._

"Molly and Mycroft were in on it? - No."

John stumbled back, his head shaking vigorously. He couldn't believe it, he couldn't. There was no way Sherlock had faked his death. The bastard wouldn't do that to them. - to him.

 _It depends on why I did it, doesn't it John_. Sherlock's voice sounded sad in John's mind.

John fell onto the chair, Sherlock's chair, his legs hanging over the arm. His head was spinning and he couldn't breath or focus. Even the smallest idea that Sherlock had faked his death was causing a pain in his chest worse than any bullet. Tears were burning his eyes as he thought it over and over. As Sherlock hinted at what part of him wanted to believe, yet couldn't bring himself too.

_John, Moriarty had painted me into a corner, turned everyone against me…._

"Not me. Never me."

_No, not you. - Nor Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade or Molly.- He wanted to destroy me John. You know he did. You heard him say it. "I'll burn the heart right out of you." what do you think he meant John? My work? - My work stopped being my heart a long time ago. I didn't care about whether the world believed in me or not. - I just care that you did._

"I told you I believed you Sherlock." John replied to the silent, empty room with a tight voice.

_I know, and he knew. He knew you'd never turn your back on me John. So he had to find another way to win._

John's heart froze as he waited for Sherlock to tell him.

_He…._

"John? Deary, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted.

John closed his eyes and wished her away. He wanted to be alone. - Alone with Sherlock. Taking a breath he answered, not turning to look at her.

"I - I'm fine Mrs. Hudson, thank you."

There was a short silence, that didn't feel all that short. He didn't hear her leave and wished again that she would.

"John, dear. - You have a visitor." Mrs Hudson announced in an apologetic tone.

John was finally forced to turn and got the surprise of his life when he saw Harry stood, soaked to the skin next to his landlady. He frowned a question that wasn't immediately answered.

"I - I'll be down stairs… if you need anything." the older woman stuttered before rushing away with a small encouraging smile.

"T-thank you Mrs. Hudson. - We'll be fine." John assured as she left.

John got to his feet slowly. "Harry." he acknowledged with a sigh, brushing a hand at his face to clear away any traces that he'd been on the verge of tears again.

"John."

_She lost her job and needs a place to stay._

John cleared his throat and tried to force Sherlock to the back of his mind. "Why are you here?"

_I just told you._

"I - I need a place to stay Johnny." she sighed. "I've gotten myself into…"

_Told you._

"…some trouble. I lost my job and my flat."

_See._

John groaned and hung his head. "So you came to me."

"You're my brother."

"Yeah. - And I was your brother when I was invalided home too."

Harry hung her head in shame. "I - I was…"

"I don't care Harry. - It's not important."

There was silence in the flat, complete, cut-it-with-a-knife silence.

"John. Please." Harry sighed. "I have nowhere else to go."

John looked up at his sister. She looked a mess. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her face pale and drawn. Her hands were shaking.

"Your still drinking?" he asked, waiting for her answer and Sherlock's I told you so, which to his surprise never came.

"I'm trying John. Really I am but…"

"It's too hard. " he finished for her, his tone tired and worn. "It's always too hard, isn't? - It was too hard to stop drinking. It was too hard to save your marriage. It was too hard to support your bother when he needed it."

"John." she sighed again, tears filling her gaze. "That's not fair."

"Fair? -  _Fair_? - on who Harry?" he shouted. "Fair on me, when I have to bail you out and pull string that aren't even mine? - Fair on Clara, when you left her without a word for three day and went on a drinking binge? - Oh, no let me guess… it's not fair on  _you_ …because it's a disease, you can't help yourself…" he was growing more angry by the second.

_John calm down. Breathe._

"Shut up Sherlock!…"

Harry's head shot up, staring at her brother with confusion and concern, which John either didn't notice or chose to ignore.

"….that excuse…" he carried on. "…only goes so far Harry. I've tried to help you, Clara tried to help you, but you wouldn't let us. You wouldn't even try. And now you show up on my doorstep begging for help…" he shook his head, his hands had finally stopped trembling.

"John please. - I need you."

"Need me! Need me! - And where were you when I needed  _you_ Harry. Where were you when I lost my best friend? The man who'd saved me when no one else could. The man who gave me a reason to continue living. The man who was there for me when no one, not even my own family, was. - Where were you then, Harry!" he yelled so hard, she physically flicked at the blow of his words. John couldn't breathe. The tears he'd tried to hid a few moments ago where now pooling in his eyes, blurring his vision. He lifted his hand to cover them as he trembled beneath he weight of his still raw grief. Without another word he walked away, heading straight for the bathroom. If he was going to break, and he was sure he was, it would not be in front of his thoughtless, selfish sister.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

It was almost twenty minutes before John returned from the bathroom. Twenty minutes where he'd sat on the loo-seat, staring into space as tears slid down his face. It was still and silent. No Harry, no Sherlock, just absolute painful silence. He'd probably over reacted, he thought. She was his sister, it was only right that she come to him for help. It had just been one of those day. Too much stress and he'd snapped like a twig. It wasn't really Harry's fault she hadn't been there after Sherlock had died. He hadn't went in search of her support or comfort. But then she hadn't offered any. It hadn't been as if Harry didn't know how close him and Sherlock were. He knew she read his blog, she occasional left him messages there, and they were famous.  **Sherlock Holmes and his blogger Dr. Watson.** Though maybe that was the problem. Maybe Harry hadn't wanted to get involved, especially after the  **Sherlock's a Fake**  scandal. Which just made it worse. Harry had always been selfish, John knew that but to put her reputation above the pain he was going though at the time…still going though, was unforgivable. - But just because his sister was a heartless selfish bitch, it didn't mean he had to stoop to her level. So if she needed help, he'd give it to her….on condition.

So John strolled back into the living room to find Harry's sat nervously on the coach, playing with her phone. She looked up as he walked in and John saw the guilt and hope in her eyes. "You can stay…."

 _She's not having my room_. Sherlock voice return.

"Really?" Harry sighed. "Thanks John."

_She's not having my room._

"On condition."

Harry shifted in her seat knowingly.

"No drinking. You'll attend your meetings if I have to drag you there and tie you to the chair myself."

Harry paled.

"I mean it Harry."

She nodded finally. "Alright. No drinking and I'll go to my meetings."

"You're here until you can get a new job and a new flat, not a moment longer."

Harry nodded silently, still uncomfortable with the conditions but realising she had little option.

 _She's not having my room_. Sherlock repeated with force.

"You can have my room Harry, up stairs."

She frowned. "What about you?"

John didn't even hesitate. "I'll take Sherlock's old room."

And that was that. John Watson had gain a new flatmate while trying to figure out just what had happened to the old one.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

 _It was all a blur. A body falling faster and faster. The sound of it hitting concrete. Blood and shouts and screams. Then a gun shot and Sherlock was running. Breathless and scared. It had all gone wrong. Another body was falling. Another body hitting tarmac. Sherlock crouches at his friends side in a pool of blood soaking into his trousers. He turning the fallen soldier. Tears staining his face as blood stains John Watson's and back and chest and the ground around them. His life seeping away. Sherlock knows John isn't the only one he'll lose today but he's the only one he can't bare to. He lifts John's head into his lap, a shaking hand on each side supporting it. John opens his eyes and looks up at him. His lips are covered in blood but they're moving. Sherlock can't hear what he's saying. Lowering his head closer to his friends mouth he stains to listen but its so heard. John's voice is so weak. He can't make out the words. Then there are no words, just a deafening painful silence and..._ Sherlock sprung upright in a strange uncomfortable bed, sweat pasting his clothing to his flesh. His heart racing and missing the comfort of home.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

John is breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest, he head buzzing. He would think that he'd be used to the nightmares by now but he isn't. He doesn't think he ever will be. That day had replayed itself again and again. Over and over. Never changing. Sherlock. The roof. The fall. The blood. The pain. The knowledge that he'd lost everything. His chest hurt, his head hurt, his body hurt. - worst his soul hurt. Harry's knocking on the door.

"I-I'm f-fine. - G-go back t-to b-bed." he stutters.

Harry's not used to the nightmare, unlike Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. She sounds concerned and worried.

"It's n-nothing." John repeats taking a deep breath to try and sound calmer than he feels. "I'm f-fine."

Then he can hear her leaving. The creaking of the stairs and he sighs in relief before the tears come and he's turning his face into the pillow. Sherlock's pillow. If he tries very hard he can smell him there and its calming. So very calming. As his breathing returned to normal, as the tears stop, his mind is silenced. His lids grow heavy and the last thing he hears before slipping back into sleep is Sherlock's voice.

_I'm alive John. - I'll come back, one day._

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

To John Watson, one day couldn't come fast enough. Life with Harry was torture. She had kept her promise to attended AA meetings and he was glad of that at least. She was looking for her own place and a new job, neither easy in the current financial climate. But living in a house with her was slowing driving him crazy. Many, including himself, had thought sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes must have been the most torturous experience imaginable, but the truth was it was all rather comforting. Warm and friendly and easy. It was home. It had never been easy living with Harry, even before she became an recovering alcoholic. She was fussy and moody and a complete mess. She never cleaned up after herself and complained about everything. It had been a nightmare. Life with Sherlock was calmer somehow.

What was worse was trying to living in a flat with a woman who seemed determined to question his every thought, feeling and action. She'd kept her mouth shut for the first few days, but when she'd walked into the kitchen and heard John having a conversation with his dead flatmate about his death, she's begun to ask questions. Questions he wasn't willing or able to answer. She began to probe into his relationship with Sherlock and he knew what she was getting at. The same thing everyone got at. Was his and Sherlock's relationship platonic?

"Of course it was." He'd told her. After all he wasn't gay. She was the one waving the rainbow flag in their family. He was a hundred percent straight. - Except… well, he hadn't had a proper long lasting relationship with a woman since…well before Afghanistan. And while he enjoyed the sex, the few relationships he'd had since hadn't exactly lived up to expectations. He hadn't gone out of his way to alter his priorities. Number one being - Sherlock. Number two being - the work. Everything instantly took a back step to those two things - Including which ever girl he was dating at the time.

One of his girlfriends…. Joan, no Jane… no Jeanette, yes that's it Jeanette, had said once, the night she's broken up with him in fact, that he was a great boyfriend. He'd smiled, laughed and been flattered, then she'd delivered the death blow… "Sherlock's a very lucky man." and once again he was single. He'd tried to persuade her that she was being silly, though not in those words obviously, but he hadn't sounded all that convincing even to his own ear. He hadn't even put up that much of a fight. He'd just sighed and watched her leave. You would have though he'd be angry, you'd expect him to get defensive or upset, but he hadn't. He'd just brushed it off and focused on Sherlock and what he needed.

So what did that say about them? What did that say about John Watson? He'd asked himself that countless times since Harry's interrogation. Since her determined mission to uncover the truth of her brother so-called friendship. But the thing was John didn't have any answers. For her or for himself. Sherlock of course gave his opinion as he always did.

_By definition John, we were in a relationship. - Sex is not the defining feature of a relationship. - Physical attraction is far more complicated that the moronic population of this planet wants to believe. - Defining ones sexuality is a pointless task John, it changes depending on the moral and social attitudes of the time we live in. In the Roman era being gay was as common as Eastenders and in Sparta, bisexuality was encouraged._

None of this help John understand what he was thinking or feeling of course. So instead he rather harshly told his sister to concentrate of sorting her own damn life out and stop rummaging though his. Then he'd thrown himself into trying to figure out the case of Sherlock's fake death. - if it was faked.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

John had run though every possible explanation in his mind over and over. He'd tried contacting Mycroft to question him about it but the man seemed determined avoid his calls and texts. After a week of this he decided to try another tact and went in search of Molly Hooper, but where she'd spent months trying to pin him down, she now also seemed bent of avoidance.

_Mycroft's warned her off, obviously._

A deduction that was given more weight when John finally got Molly alone in the canteen of . They'd been exchanging pleasantries, John telling her that he was back at Baker Street, trying to ease into the subject. Molly had smiled warmly, obviously glad to hear the news. Finally he broached Sherlock's death.

"Molly? - Is there something you want to tell me? About Sherlock's death?"

Molly's eyes widened and John saw her swallowing hard.

_See. I told you._

"I - I don't know…"

"Please Molly, just tell me. Is Sherlo…."

And there it was. The convenient beep of a pager. Molly scrabbled in her white coat and pulled it out, glancing at the screen, her features paling. "I - I have to g-go. - Emergency." she stated rushing away as fast as her feet can carry her.

_Emergency? She's a pathologist, what kind of emergency could she possibly have. - It was obviously a message from Mycroft._

"Yeah." John frowned. "So you were right. - You're not dead."

 _I was right? - John, you're the one doing the deductions in this case. I'm just providing feedback._ Sherlock smirked. John could see it as if he was standing right in front of him.

After that he didn't bother trying to talk to Molly or Mycroft again. He didn't tell Mrs. Hudson about his suspicions, he just waited. Hoping someday Sherlock would come home. Knowing that made life oddly liveable for John. He'd settled back into his old route, kind of. He went to work at the surgery. He shared Sunday lunch with Mrs. Hudson and Harry. He even went on a few dates, though they were few and far between and rarely made it past dinner and a movie. Then he would come up and crawl into bed. He'd tell an empty room, in a low voice so Harry never heard him, about his night. About the girl. He'd listen to his head point out all her failings as only Sherlock would. He could almost imagine he was there, in the flat, in the room. - in the bed. Then he'd turn over, bury his face into Sherlock's pillow and sleep with the knowledge that out there Sherlock was alive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole Sparta thing I got from watching a Bethany Hughes documentary about them. I love Bethany, she a great TV historian. I'm a bit of a history doc addict, mostly ancient history. It started after I left school and I got into the Romans. The whole speech Sherlock gives John about Sexuality is very much the way I think about it. Though I would consider myself straight, you never know what's around the corner. So just because John is straight doesn't mean he can't fall for Sherlock on an emotional level, and emotional leads to physical (most of the time). Now I'm sure there are people who would argue with my opinion but hey, you have yours, I have mine, and if my opinion offends you in some way, well… there's really nothing I can do about that, and I won't apologise for it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mainly focuses on how John and Sherlock's seperation is seen by those around them. Namely: Molly, Harry and Mycroft. It's a pretty short chapter. Sorry.

Harry watched John all the time. Her concern had eased over the last few weeks as he seemed to settle back into the world, but that didn't mean she wasn't still worried. She'd still hear him talking to himself, or more precisely Sherlock, when he thought she was able to. He still wouldn't let her sit in Sherlock's chair or touch his stuff. He'd went postal on her when he come home from work and found her using the dead detectives mug. And his love life was strangely no existent, which for her brother was just one more thing to spark worry. She'd spoken to Mrs. Hudson about it. Asked her just what kind of relationship her brother had had with his dead flatmate. The old woman's answer was always the same.

"It's complicated dear."

There was never any further explanation. The woman would just turn away and busy herself with something else.

It wasn't that she cared whether John had been in a relationship with Sherlock, she was hardly in a position to judge, but not knowing made it hard to figure out just how badly John was hurting or how to help him. - And she did want to help him. It was kind of like a redemption thing, after not being there when he'd been discharged, for not being there when Sherlock had died. She wanted to get him through this, but John wouldn't talk about it with her. He wouldn't acknowledge that his relationship was anything beyond friendship, even though everything about his behaviour told her is went deeper than that. So Harry was stuck trying to support her brother through the loss of a man he clearly cared deeply for without any insight. It felt like walking around a strange room blind. Feeling her way as she tried not to break anything, or step on anyone's toes.

She hadn't realised how distant they'd been till she'd forced herself back into John's shattered life. He'd be the first to admit they'd never been close. Hell, they'd spent most of their lives practically hating one another, but Harry had to hold her hands up to the fact that she was solely to blame for their current estrangement. Her and her drinking had not only ruined her marriage, it had destroyed the already fragile bond with her brother, the only family she had left and maybe it was that guilt that was making her determined to be there for him now.

She'd stuck to her deal and was cleaning up her act. In fact she hadn't had a drink for almost two months. It was hard, every day was a constant battle, but when she felt like a drink she'd think of John and know that this was her last chance. He'd never said the words of course, but she knew that he couldn't - wouldn't - take anymore. If she screwed this up, that was it…no more big brother. While she tried to keep her life on the straight and sober path, she watched John trudge along his own. It always felt like he was waiting for something and on those dark nights when she heard him calling out in his sleep, or when he'd sit silently staring at an empty grey leather chair, she hoped it wasn't death.

She knew he'd gone through a bad patch just after getting shot. He'd told her most of it himself, the rest she'd gained for Clara. It made her sick to the stomach to think that John had been that depressed. He'd admitted that ending it hadn't been a completely out of the question idea, but thankfully he hadn't given into those dark thoughts and feelings. He'd fought his way back from the abyss and Harry knew how. John had been given a guiding light, a reason to fight on and live. He'd been shown that his life could still have purpose. Sherlock Holmes had been that light and for that Harry would forever be grateful. She only wished she'd had the chance to meet him, to thank him. Though if what she'd read about him on John's blog was even half true, she'd probably have ended up hitting him ten seconds later.

As it was, she would never meet the man who'd saved her brother's life. The man who'd given him a reason to carry on. The man she suspected meant a thousand times more to her big brother than he was willing or maybe able to admit, and that hurt almost as much as watching John's silent grief.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

Molly walked into the mortuary with a slight spring in her step that quickly vanished when she saw the figure sat cross legged on one of the autopsy tables. Having not put the lights on yet, it was still dark but Molly didn't need the light to know who it was, the shape of his body, the way he sat, told Molly everything. Including what mood he was in. Flicking the switch, the room was suddenly flooded and she watched Sherlock flinched at the intrusion of bright fluorescent light. "Sherlock?" she said his name softly, like a child almost. He didn't' speak; he just continued to sit with his fingers steepled to his lips. His gaze staring into the distance. Molly walked towards him cautiously. She knew she was nowhere near as clever as Sherlock but she knew the signs of insomnia. His eyes were red-rimmed and glazed over with dark rings beneath his usually bright sea blue eyes. She'd seen this coming, even before he'd been forced into faking his own death.

"Sherlock?" she smiled, stopping in front of him. "Are you alright?"

"Bored." he sated with groan. "Bored, bored, bored!"

Molly watched him sadly. It was so hard seeing him so broken. They were silent, Molly never knowing what to say. It wasn't the first time he's surprised her at work. For a man in hiding he hadn't really cared very much about showing up at St. Bart's. Though it was always late at night and she never actually saw him arrive. He always seem to just appear, like magic.

When this had all started, Molly had felt a warmth at his trust in her. That he needed her help made her feel special, because Sherlock never needed help. But after the fall, when she'd seen exactly what it all meant in the long run, she'd felt the opposite. Watching John's grief that day and the weeks that followed had her conscience ripping at her heart. After a few months of John slowly pulling himself away from everyone, she's tried to tell him. She just hadn't been able to live with herself. - But John wouldn't give her a moment and Sherlock brother had made it very clear that if she did inform John - or anyone else - that Sherlock was in fact alive and well, she would be in a lot of trouble. And Molly knew it wasn't an empty threat. So she'd stopped trying.

If watching John dissolve was heart-breaking, watching Sherlock crumble month by month was far worse. He somehow lost that drive that had been so admirable. He no longer walked around with that spring in his step; at least he never walked around the mortuary with it. He would just come in, sit down and flick through her files in silence. Once upon a time she would have been overjoyed to be the only person Sherlock Holmes could turn to, the only one in his life. But that had been before John, before she'd realised that he was the only person in the consulting detectives world that really mattered and that realisation had hurt, embarrassed and freed her.

Molly tried ignore Sherlock's presence by busying herself with paperwork.

"Hannah Thomas. Carbon monoxide poison. Nothing suspicious. - Jeffrey Keens. Heart attack. Dull. - Sophia Campbell. Fractured right ankle, dislocated shoulder, three broken ribs. Pushed down the stairs, probably by her nephew, though it may be a lodger, hard to tell without all the relevant data, might want to drop a line to Lestrade, though might want to leave out the suspicions about the nephew-slash-lodger, might draw suspicion as your not known for your deduction skills." Sherlock stated with a tired, anxious voice, his gaze never leaving the wall.

"Oh…" Molly stuttered, flicking though the three new arrivals files. "…I'll…l-let…"

Sherlock closed his eyes as he realised what he'd said. "Molly?"

"It's alright, I know what you meant."

"Oh…good…but I wasn't…."

Sherlock was silent, his fingers pressed to his lip. She saw him swallow hard, another out of character trait. He'd always been so calm and collected. At least until the Moriarty incident.

"Sherlock?" she asked in a small voice, shifting on her feet, he hands in the pockets of her white coat. "A-are you…..alright?"

Then it came. The question she'd been waiting years to hear. The one he'd never asked, maybe because he already knew. - Maybe because he feared the answer. Either way, it was like a black hole sucking all the air out of the room. "How…. How's John?"

Molly's breath caught in her throat at the suddenness of the question as well at the soft whispered way it was asked. As if Sherlock hadn't really meant to asked but couldn't prevent the words from escaping. She dropped her chin to her chest and could already feel the tears pooling in her eyes. It was such a simple question, but it didn't have a simple answer. How was John Watson? Broken. Empty. An abandoned ship in a storm, lost without his captain. Molly hadn't really thought of them in that sense until the day of Sherlock's death. John had just been Sherlock's friends, his blogger, his sidekick. It hadn't been until she's watched them, really watched them that she understood.

She turned the question over in her mind until she finally had the answer. "Same as you." she sigh, her gaze never leaving the floor. There was that uncomfortable silence again. Molly turned back to her work. She wanted tell him about her conversation with John a few weeks ago, the one Mycroft had interrupted, the man had called her away and once again made it clear that she was to keep out of it, for Sherlock's sake he'd said. But watching Sherlock now Molly couldn't ignore that voice telling her that he need to know. "Sherlock?"

"Humm."

She took a breath and turned to face him, her brown eyes sad and sympathetic. "Sherlock…he knows."

Sherlock's head snaps up to fix Molly with a questioning hard stare.

"Well…he suspects." she swallowed. "He cornered me a few weeks ago in the canteen."

Sherlock leapt off the table. "What did you tell him?"

Molly instinctively took a step back when he advanced. "Nothing. I didn't tell him anything. Mycroft paged me before I could."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the mention of his brother's name. "Mycroft?"

Molly shrugged. "Don't know how he knew but I got a message telling me not to say a word and to just leave. - So I did."

Sherlock started pacing. "What did he say?"

"That it was for my own good to keep…."

"Not Mycroft, John!" Sherlock snapped, reeling on her again.

Molly flinched and swallowed before carrying on. "He didn't really say very much, he just asked if there was something I wanted to tell him but I could tell he knew something."

Sherlock stood still just staring at her. It was the weirdest and most nerve-racking sensation she'd ever felt. Then a smile spread across his features and a glow filled his eyes and Molly felt her heart skip a little at it. "I knew he wasn't stupid." Sherlock said. "Though I thought he'd have figured it out much sooner." he laughed to himself before he spun around and marched out of the mortuary that spring returning to his step.

Molly sighed with relief, thankimg god it was all over.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

Mycroft was sat at his desk when his brother marched confidently though the door before his sectary was able to inform him of the man's arrival. He took a deep irritated breath as he told the woman on the other end of the intercom that everything was alright and begun staring at his younger brother as he dropped himself into the chair across from him. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" his tone was placid and calm.

"Bored."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll find something to occupy you."

"No." Sherlock stated. "I'm going home."

Mycroft lowered his head a little, looking at the man though his lashes. "Sherlock…" he drew out. "…we've talked about this. It's safer for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and John that you remain dead."

"Death is boring." Sherlock all but whined.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "This was your idea Sherlock. Your plan."

"I'm fully aware of that my dear brother, but I hadn't expected it to be so…." he fell silent.

"What?" Mycroft pressed with a knowing air.

John and Sherlock's relationship had always intrigued Mycroft Holmes, because it was so unlikely. They shouldn't work, they shouldn't like each other or work together so well, yet they did. Mycroft had known almost from the moment he'd met John that the doctor was going to change his brothers life. He just had really expected it to be so drastically.

Sherlock was talking again. "…so dull."

Mycroft lent back in his chair and regarded the man. "Are you sure that's the only reason? Boredom?"

"Of course. - What else could it be. - I want my life back. I want to get back to the work."

"So it has nothing to do with wanting to get back to 221B and John?" Mycroft asked with a raised suspicions brow.

Sherlock glared at his brother for a few moments. "No."

Mycroft just scoffed. "Sherlock you may be able to fool the world, you may even on the very rare occasion fool me, but don't try to fool yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about Mycroft."

The older Holmes sighed. Was his brother being on purposefully obtuse or was he just doing it to get under his skin? "Well…" he shrugged brushing the argument aside. "…the answer Sherlock is no. We still haven't traced all of the assassins Moriarty hired. We have no real idea if he had some kind of secondary plan. It's too dangerous to go back. - You will have to wait."

Sherlock groaned angrily. "For how long?" he snapped. "It's been almost three years Mycroft, how long must I hide away? Another year? Two? - Three?"

"Until dear brother, we are sure that its safe."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and marched to the window, looking out over London. "I can't Mycroft. I need to work, I need my life back."

"You mean you need  _him_ back." Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes."

"I never thought I'd see the day Sherlock. Though I guess after what happened with that Adler woman it was only a matter of time."

"Nothing happened with that Woman." Sherlock snapped.

"Except she showed you, you were able to feel after all." Mycroft shook his head. "After that was it really any wonder that you began to see John in a different light."

"John is my friends." Sherlock insisted.

"Is that all Sherlock, a friend? - Lestrade is a friend, as is Mrs. Hudson, yet I do not see you standing their pinning away to see them." his brow rose in challenge as Sherlock glared at him.

There was silence in the room. Neither spoke, neither moved. They both just remained where they were. Thinking. Finally the silence was broken by Mycroft talking into his intercom. "Miss Granger, could you bring in the Reichenbach file."

Sherlock turned a questioning gaze to his brother, which Mycroft met with his unique secretive smirk.

"Come now Sherlock, you think I hadn't planned for this?" he scoffed again as there was a knock on the door. "Come in Miss Granger." he called.

Sherlock never took his interested gaze of his older brother. "What is that?"

Mycroft waited for the young sectary to leave before answering. "Your ticket home Sherlock. - Forty-eight hours. I assume you can wait that long, can't you."

Sherlock turned back to the window with a small smile. "I suppose so. If I must." he sighed.

"You must."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter. Sorry it's so short compared to previous chapters.

John groaned as he pulled his face out of the pillow and checked the clock. 8:30AM. He smiled at little, for John Watson that was considered a lie in. After years of hardly any sleep while working with Sherlock and now the 6AM call to be at the surgery by 8, it was a miracle his body clock understood the concept at all. He did wish that he could have just another hour or so. He hadn't slept in past 9 since…well, medical school and only then on very rare occasions.

With another groan at the injustice of waking up early on a weekend, John throw his legs out of bed and plodded into the connecting bathroom to deal with personal business which had become a constant necessity over the past few months. His dream taking a turn he would never had imagined possible. After twenty minutes John strolled out via the side door with a flushed staining his cheeks. He passed the fridge and headed for the living room to fletch his mug that he'd left beside his chair the previous night. He was surprise that Sherlock was so quite. Usually the first thing he heard in the morning was that ever constant, comforting voice wishing him a good morning. Which was actually totally unlike Sherlock if John thought about it. Sherlock never wished anyone good morning, unless he wanted something. His mind was solely focused on this as he walked to the small table and reached for his mug. Then froze.

He just stooped there for what seemed like eternity staring at the figure in the chair. The morning sunlight bouncing of his dark curled hair. His slim, elegant fingers plucking at the strings of his violin, his sea blue eyes with flicks of brown staring at him and that smug confident smile pulling slightly at his features.

_That's…it can't be._

_John of course it is._

_Of course its not. - You've finally lost it Johnny boy. It's not bad enough you've spent the last few months talking to yourself, now your hallucinating. Though lets be honest, it was bound to happened eventually. - And its not the first time. Give you credit though, blood convincing._ John's hand was beginning to shake as his fingers fastened around the cup, lifting it slowly and cautiously off the table. His gaze never leaving the illusion in front of him. With a deep breath he straightened, shook his head, turned and went back to the kitchen.  _A cup of tea is what you need…no coffee…or maybe something stronger, except there isn't anything in the house because of Harry. So coffee then. That would be enough to clear your mind. A cup of tea then a call to your therapist._ Cause no matter how much he didn't want to talk or think about his issues, seeing his dead flatmate was most defiantly a cause for concern.

"If your making tea John." Sherlock announced behind the doctor, making him freeze again at the counter.

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the look on John's face. It was never going to be easy walking back into the man's life. And maybe he could have been a little more subtle, maybe got Molly or Mycroft to talk to him first. As it was, he'd wanted to surprise the man and this was the most fun he has since his self-imposed afterlife. He watched John stand motionless at the cupboard his gaze locked on the shelf. Sherlock couldn't stop the wide grin spreading across his lips. The shock would fade eventually, then no doubt John was shout a bit then demand an explanation and then they could settle back into normal life. The detectives gaze once again swept the room. He'd done it a few times since his arrival three hour ago needed to be sure everything was where he'd left it. He hadn't waited for permission from Mycroft. He didn't need it. He'd promised his brother forty eight hours and that's what he'd given him. He'd hardly slept the night before in anticipation of getting home, back to 221B. - Back to John. He'd been quite tempted on arrival to go wake John but he was a terrible grouch when woken up, not that he was any better when he woke of his own accord. So Sherlock had dropped into his chair, pulled out John laptop and decided to see just what his brother had been up to.

Turned out Mycroft had put a rather impressive if a little implausible spin on the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. No one with a brain-cell would believe the nonsense his brother had begun feeding to the press two days ago, via an anonymous source. Luckily the general population were morons. After laughing at the public's ability to believe anything on a whim as long as it had the words 'exclusive' or 'secret source reveals' on it, Sherlock decided to check both his website and John's blog. It took him two hours to sort out the mess and post an announcement of his resurrection from the dead, playing along with the ridiculous legend Mycroft had put out. He'd then sent of a very to the point email to Lestrade.

**You know where to find me.**

**SH.**

Then settled back to wait for John to wake up. And it was the most dull, agonising wait in history. Now John was awake and almost responsive, Sherlock felt finally at ease. He plucked at the strings of his violin as he continued to watch a motionless John in the kitchen. "I emailed Lestrade." he announced. "Hopefully we'll be back to work soon. There's a rather intriguing case I found while waiting for you get waking up…." he rambled on. "…a woman found drowned in the middle of Wimbledon common. - I have a few theories but don't wish to jump to conclusions until I've have all the data." John still wasn't moving and Sherlock finally frowned. "John?"

"Oh." gasped a female voice from the doorway.

Sherlock turned to stare at Harry, his gaze making a quick sweep of her as she stood gaping at him. "Huh, Harry. - I'd say it was nice to finally meet you but I'd be lying. - I'm glad you've stopped drinking, though I'm sure that John would tell you that replacing one addiction for another is not really the wisest option. Of course you already know that. Your councillor told you, was it before or after you began having sex with her." his gaze narrowed look at her more closely. "…before of course."

"Your…Your?"

Sherlock smirked and turned his gaze back to John. "Yes." Sherlock lifted his bow from his lap and began to swing it aimlessly as he watch John finally move.

 

~  **Holmes Is Where The Voice Is** ~

 

John just stood staring at Sherlock's mug, his mind a buzz of nonsense and noise. He had to admit it now that despite his believe that Sherlock had faked his death, deep down in his heart he knew it wasn't true. Which meant that he'd been clinging to a dream for the past few months. Which also meant he was actually in deep trouble. Maybe he should have continued with his therapy, then he wouldn't currently be losing his marbles.

 _John._ His mind announced _. You know that's really him, right?_

_Of course its not him. He's dead. You saw it with your own two eyes. It was all very nice fantasising that it was all some grand trick but I think it's time to face reality now John Watson. That is not Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes is dead._

_He isn't._

_Fine. I'll prove it._

John wasn't even aware that he was moving again. His mind was arguing with itself. He didn't feel the mug he'd pulled absently from the shelf. He didn't feel his arm rising or the snap of muscle as he flung it across the room. All he was focused on was the illusion of Sherlock. Waiting for the object to pass right though him and land in an empty abandoned owner-less leather chair.

Sherlock hadn't expected to be bombarded with kitchen ware, so he hadn't had time to react. Instead the red cup collided with his forehead painfully, breaking the skin beneath and resorting in a barrage of curses from the usually composed consulting detective as he leapt to his feet. "What the hell are you doing John!" he yelled. "For God sake!" his hand probed at the wound, where it began to coat his fingers in blood, that was now making its way down his face.

"Your…." John gasped, physically shaken. "You're not dead?"

"Obviously. - Though I may end up so." he snapped, waving his bloody fingers at his flatmate, while fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief. "What did you think you were doing John!"

"I…" John just stood, frozen once more at the realisation.

The two men stared at each other. Harry stared at them and in the distance there was the sound of running feet, breathless pants and words. Then Mrs. Hudson rushing into the room and skidded to a halt next to Harry. Looking pale, breathless and shocked beyond recognition. Sherlock turned his most warm, charming smile on the older woman.

"Mrs. Hudson."

There was a long silence in which Harry half expected the other woman to faint, instead she just heaved a heavy sigh and shook her head. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock strolled over to her, gripped her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her check. "Its good to be home."

Tears pooled in the old woman's eyes as she looked up at the man who'd become the son she'd never had. Her shaking hand raising to brush at his cheek maternally, before swatting at his shoulder. "You shit, Sherlock." she laughed though her tears. "You broke our hearts." she sniffled, looking up at his apologetic smile. "Don't you ever do that again, or you'll find yourself out on the streets."

The pair laughed at the irrational statement. "What happened to you?" Mrs. Hudson added after a few moments.

"It seems John doesn't take all that well to surprises." Sherlock smirked, turning back to see John glaring at him dangerously.

 _He's real. It's really him_. That's all that went through his mind for a good few minutes. He hadn't even noticed Mrs. Hudson's arrival, or Sherlock moving to greet her. He was just in complete shock. Sherlock Holmes was alive. Actually alive. Living, breathing, alive.  _Bastard!_

"John. There are ladies present." Sherlock smirked, knowing Mrs. Hudson had used far worse language.

"You bastard!" John yelled this time, his gaze turning hard as his brain cleared of confusion and was swamped with anger. "You arrogant, smug, upper class wanker. How could you!"

"Come dear, I think we should leave them to it." Mrs. Hudson whispered quietly, almost dragging a still stunned Harry out of the room.

"What? - why?"

"I don't think you wanted to be here when…." she didn't get to finish her statement as a thump hit the wall and Sherlock shouted.

Mrs. Hudson and Harry made what would be considered in military parlance as a tactical retreat.

John reached for the first thing he could find, which happened to be one of Sherlock's books. It flew through the air and missed Sherlock's head by about three inches.

"John! That's a first addition!" the detective yelled.

"Like I give a flying first addition I thought you were dead! We all thought you were dead! - I watched you jump!"

"It's complicated John." Sherlock said calmly. "I will explain the whole thing once your calm."

"Calm! - If you're going to wait for me to be calm, you'll have a long fucking wait!"

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "John, Moriarty had people watching you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. If I didn't jump then they would have killed you all. I made the only logical decision."

This did nothing to easy the tension.

"And making me watch was what?"

"I knew you'd never believe it unless you saw it yourself. - And who better as a witness that my blogger."

John's face reddened and his hands were shaking. He could feel his heart slamming mercilessly against his ribs. "So you put us all though this to save our lives?"

"Of course. - You're the only friend I have John."

"Nice way to show it. - Do you know what I've gone though. Do you! - the nightmares, the counselling, the questions and allegations."

"Yes, it was rather ridiculous of TrueCrime84 to think you were involved. As I clearly stated in my post."

John glared at him with fire. "Screw defending my honour to some idiot Sherlock! I was pulled in by the police. They actually thought I was your accomplice."

Sherlock hung his head, shaking it. "I know. I'm sorry, I always knew they were morons but even I wouldn't have though that they were that thick. - You realise it was Donovan who put them on to you."

"Yes. - She never liked the fact that I sided with you. - She's been transferred you know. Cardiff."

Sherlock gave that satisfied smirk and John knew instantly that he'd been behind Sally's sudden departure.

"Of course you know." he sigh, shaking his head.

"Well, I've been waiting for long time to pull that one." Sherlock laughed.

John dropped his head and stared at his feet. He knew he should he happy Sherlock was alive. That he was home. It had all been some kind of awful dream they could put behind them. But he just couldn't wipe the memory of watching Sherlock topple to his death from his mind. "So how did you…? Actually, forget it. I don't want to know." With that he turned around and marched, back ridged, straight to his room. - Sherlock's room.

Sherlock watched him go with a frown. This had most certainly not been the reunion he'd expected. He'd thought there would be shouting, John always shouted when Sherlock had disappointed him. But John whole manner seemed off. Different. Hard to analyse. He was clearly happy he was alive but there was something playing behind his features Sherlock couldn't place. Walking over to his chair he fell back down into it and steepled his fingers, wondering if maybe he should have let John know earlier. Maybe by trying to protect his friend he'd actually destroyed him. His thoughts were interrupted by the reappearance of said friend as he walked through the kitchen with his emergency first-aid kit in hand. It hadn't been the first time John had had to patch him up, and hopefully it wouldn't be the last.

John pulled the chair from the table/desk and positioned it in front of Sherlock. Placing his first-aid kit on his lap he started to riffle though for the antiseptic and butterfly stitches. His gaze never meeting Sherlock's. He worked on autopilot while his mind sorted through the new situation he found himself in. Sherlock's reappearance was probably the best gift anyone could have given to John but with it came complications. Namely those surrounding John recent realization of his feeling. It had been easy to come to terms with the fact that those feelings went far deeper than friendship when he thought Sherlock was dead. Probably because it meant that he didn't need to actually face them. They were just a bitter sweet regret that kept him warm at night.

He'd come to the conclusion a while ago now that while he would have the occasional date, even the odd one night stand he wouldn't be able to settle down. He just couldn't see that in his future. - Though if he was truthful, he'd stopped seeing the wife and two point four kids in his future not all that long after moving in with Sherlock. But with Sherlock back it opened up questions he didn't want to answer, like just how serious was he about Sherlock? Could he change everything in his life and take a chance? Were his feelings even real? Maybe they'd just been a reaction to his grief and the loss of someone he'd been so close to. Months pinning away for the man and a few hot and heavy dreams weren't exactly a reliable indicator of ones deeper emotional state.

And then there was the issue of Sherlock himself. Ever since the day they'd met, he'd made his stance on relationship's clear.  _"married to my work"_ he'd said and after a year of living with him, John knew that hadn't been a let-him-down-easy comment. He'd meant it completely. So what if John did want to move forward? It wasn't wholly down to him. Sherlock had a say too. John sighed sadly to himself, surprised at the disappointment he felt knowing that no matter whether or not he wanted a future, a more personal future with Sherlock it was never going to happen.

_I guess that your answers John. Now the question is can you live with it?_

Sherlock watched John as he tended his injury. There was something troubling him. It was written there in his tired pale face. Sherlock tried to deduce what it could be but it was hard. There were a few theorise. He could just be trying to sort everything out. He could be trying to control his anger and frustration. He could even be suffering from something like flu or a hangover. It wasn't till John glanced up for a split second that Sherlock was hit square in the chest by the answer. He stared at the doctor as the man's gaze was fixed on his wound. He could feel his hand shaking still, could see the way his lips were pressed together and his chest was heaving as he breathed. Sherlock even caught the slight small head shake, but it wasn't until their gazes met that he saw it. The dilated pupils followed by the swift break of eye contract. Sherlock swallowed. John had never not looked at him before. Not unless he was trying to hid something. Like his secret stash of cigarettes. So his sudden reluctance to look at Sherlock was alarming and intriguing all at once.

John was pressing butterfly stitches to Sherlock's head when the man gripped his wrist. Holding his long fingers against the pulse point. John tried to stay calm, tried to keep his heart and blood from giving him away, but he knew it was useless. Biology never lied.

Sherlock was surprised by his own reaction to the evidence of John's attraction. He'd been on the receiving end of this before with 'the woman' and he'd thought that it had proven that he really didn't have a heart. But now feeling John's blood race under his fingers and his face becoming flushed with each passing seconded, Sherlock realised that John had been right - as he always was. - he was ignorant of a lot things. Namely himself.

John could feel Sherlock staring at him and it was making him uncomfortable. He knew Sherlock was going to give him the ' _I'm flattered'_  speech any second and part of him wanted the ground to open up and swallow him up. But another part of him. The brave, foolish part that had lead him into this life with Sherlock when every instinct had told him it would bring nothing but trouble, was telling him to take the chance. That if Sherlock was going to give that speech at least give him a solid reason to do so, not just a suspicion. After all, what did he have to loose?

_Your best friend._

And what did he have to gain?

_Your best friend._

Exactly, but at least he'd know. One way or the other and if after Sherlock did give that speech. They'd just move on, chalk it up to a heat of the moment, glad your alive thing that would be swept under the sofa. They'd carry on as they always did because that was just the way they were. Because Sherlock and John could survive without sex as long as they didn't have to survive without each other. With that in mind, John took that leap, just as Sherlock had done three years ago. His fingers wrapped into the collar of Sherlock's black jacket and pulled him forward until their lips met. Sherlock's own fingers tightening around John's still captive wrist.

A kiss that began with fear, trepidation and a gamble quickly became one of forgiveness, passion and a promised future. Both men finally embracing what everyone had known since the day they'd met. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were always going to be a couple. It was a while before John pulled back with surprise in his gaze and met Sherlock's smiling blue eyes.

"Mycroft always said we moved fast."

"John. I don't think five years would be considered fast by anyone's standards, not even Mycroft. - Now where's my tea."

John got to his feet with a grin. "Back to normal I see."

Sherlock snorted as he picked up his bow and violin once more. "As soon as Lestrade get here with a case it will be." pulling the bow over the strings gently, a smile in his eyes as he watched John stroll into the kitchen with his blood stained mug in one hand and the first-aid kit in the other.

John was feeling remarkable at peace and looking forward to many more adventures with the worlds only consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh John.?"

"Yes Sherlock."

"You better not hog the covers or you'll be sharing a room with your sister."

  
**THE END**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok folks that's it. (sniff sniff) I've actually enjoyed writing this, which is a little weird considering when I started it I had absolutely no idea where it was going. But I think it came out relatively well. Ending are my worst part. I always try to avoid the whole slushy, cliché type and end as upbeat as I can. Sorry if you were expecting at little bit of Sherlock/John action but I just didn't think the story called for it. - and I'm terrible at writing smut. It's just not my thing. Much prefer the build-up/emotions. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this finale and it wasn't a let down. This whole scene was actually meant to begin far funnier than I think it came out. In my head I had a picture of the John throwing the cup at Sherlock's head that was making me laugh over and over but as I wrote it I'm not so sure it came over as light-hearted and silly as I intended.
> 
> I didn't go into detail about Mycroft's plan to restore Sherlock's reputation for two reason. 1) I didn't want it to go against whatever the geniuses that are Moffat and Gatiss have in store, because I'll guarantee that it is going to leave anything I write in the dust. 2) Because I actually had no idea what to write. Rofl.
> 
> Sending Donovan to Cardiff well, lets face it the woman deserves to be sent somewhere and if I could have thought of somewhere really, really horrid I would have kicked her arse there myself. As it was I couldn't so went with Cardiff as its where most of Sherlock's filming… along with Doctor Who and Torchwood. Probably should have send Anderson along with her, but then that's just too much punishment… for Cardiff. Rofl. - besides, I imagine him suffering more with Sherlock back and without his bootcall around to back him up. - In case you haven't already guessed I REALLY HATE Donovan and Anderson, though her more than him. - I also can't watch Malteasers adverts anymore because of the reporter…what's her name, you know who I mean.
> 
> Well as always I'd like to thank you all for taking the time to read.
> 
> See ya next time and don't forget "Keep Calm and Believe In Sherlock"
> 
> Cyber-hugs to you all
> 
> GATERGIRL79 signing off.
> 
> *looks around* now what do I do?


End file.
